Time Will Tell
by HobbitFeet69
Summary: Claire has an institutionalized parent. In visiting him, she meets Lecter. No pairiings! R&R please!


Rusty Bowman, a girl of nineteen, was led into the dark bowels of Frederick Chilton's asylum

Disclaimer: Only own Claire, John/Cannister

Warnings: Blood, language (somewhere), general creepiness, an OC or two, made up drug

Rating: M (just cause!)

A/N: sighs just waiting for the disclaimer to repeat itself when I post this on FF. Almost always does that and I can't figure out why

I apologize in advance for any spelling/grammar mistakes. I wrote this a while ago, before I 'd taken any real psychology classes, so the inconsistencies are out there. And it's dramatic to the point where you'll know real schizophrenics don't behave this way. That aside, enjoy what you can. Sort of a bit before _Silence_.

Claire Bowman, a girl of nineteen, was led into the dark bowels of Frederick Chilton's asylum. She was accompanied by a broad shouldered warden named Barney, a long time employee at the establishment and a gentle soul among the violent and deranged. Claire knew him pretty well by now, a veteran visitor herself. She came down the same set of stairs every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, ever since The Accident. Said 'Accident' happened three months ago and was not quite the accident that Claire had dubbed it. The concept depended on the point of view, and though Claire knew it wasn't a mere slipup, the term 'accident' made her feel better.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bowman," Barney said, tapping on the bars of the man's cell. Claire gave a quick glance around her and Barney at the other darkened human cages that lined the halls. Most of the shadowy inmates appeared to be lying in bed, lounging being on of the very few things the criminally insane were allowed to do. Claire was unaware of the two sets of eyes boring into her back, as she didn't turn her head that far. Claire fixed her gaze back on the cell she stood before and strained her eyes to see inside.

"Mr. Bowman, you daughter's here," Barney said. An average sized, middle-aged man approached them from the other side of the grey coloured bars. He had on the standard issued greyish blue jumpsuit, which hung from his shoulders and swayed with each step he took towards them. His brown eyes were glassy and dark under the shade of unkempt charcoal peppered hair. He was only forty-three and already was he losing the facilities of his mind to baser thoughts and actions. He was clinically insane. Claire regretted not realizing that this was coming. The signs were there, she just didn't even know that she was even supposed to be looking for them. Not until she saw the product of his madness did she understand his problem.

Three months ago, Claire had been returning to her home from a Saturday night movie with a hand full of close friends. The front door was locked as always, but the lights in front of the house weren't turned on to greet her when she came home in the dark. Frowning in confusion, she had used her key to get in and stepped into a horrific scene. The living room was in shambles, two lamps broken and the mail strewn from the coffee table. The large red throw rug was bunched up in various places, but its cerise colouring couldn't conceal the crimson splatter of blood flecking and streaking a great percentage of the room.

Claire's heart thudded painful yin her chest as she imagined a breaking and entering gone wrong. She skidded into the kitchen, calling her parent's names, but to no avail. It wasn't until she reached the upstairs that she lay witness to her father's Accident. A bottle of pills lay one the floor before the open bathroom door, pills having spilled out, half crushed by what may have been someone's shoe. With her hands shaking, she touched the doorframe to the bathroom and willed herself to look inside no matter the sight.

Her mother, Julian, once a pretty sight in red, was now submerged in a grisly display of her best colour. She was unconscious, her dark haired head hanging low, although she was strung up in a standing position above the bathtub, arms over her head like the late Jesus Christ. She was in a state of undress, the red of her blood covering most of her body. Darkened slashes wept the crimson that coated her, crossing her chest and abdomen.

Claire almost froze, fighting down the urge to vomit at the sight and the coppery smell of blood that seemed so thick and tangible in the still air of the house. Later, she thanked God profusely that she was still able to move, for when she spotted the perpetrator she knew that e was not in the right of mind. Her father, John Bowman, was crouched in front of the bathtub, he himself wearing his wife's life essence down the front of the white polo shirt that Claire had gifted him with at his last birthday.

John calmly swirled a finger in the puddle of blood his dead wife was slowly creating on the bathroom tile. Claire took a few jilted breaths, eyes wide, and backed away from the room. She made her way to her bedroom, a few doors down the hall, and locked the door behind her as quietly as she could. A cordless phone sat on her nightstand, and she immediately reached for it. A few minutes later, the blessed sound of sirens stopped in front of her home.

A sleepless week later she got the full details on what had happened that frightful night. The medication on the floor was a prescription for Fexaphine, a well-known MPD suppressor. It was a well kept secret between John Bowman and his wife, so well that Claire didn't even know he had a disassociate identity affliction. The pills had a long history of being in his body, read his toxicology report, and had been taken as was prescribed. Obviously, their effects weren't up to par this time around and the man was reduced to a violent identity who liked the warm colour of red. While living with her aunt and uncle, they too had received the same report and were on their way to pressing charges against the company that produced Fexaphine. In the rest of the time, she hung on to every word the psychological evaluations noted on her father. Every new development was passed to her for her own interpretation.

"Russssstyyyy," her father said, touching the bars of the cell.

"Hello, Dad," she said with a faint smile. Her resolve wavered when their eyes met, but she still held strong. He was family and he wasn't in control of himself right now.

"Call if you need anything, Miss Bowman," Barney said, sending her his own encouraging smile as he turned and headed back to his post down the hall and up the stairs. Claire swallowed hard, returning her eyes to the form of her incarcerated father. He waved to Barney's retreating back even after he'd gone. He lowered his hand and slowly faced his daughter. There was a certain gleam in his eyes that sent a chill up her spine. It was a twin of the gleam she saw in the corner of his eye after having caught him in The Accident. His small nostrils flared like an angry bull, but he smiled like a shark.

"John?" she asked, the first question she asked every time she visited the asylum. Ever since The Accident, his new personality had been the primary face he wore, but in the presence of the doctors, John was known to surface for two or three moments at a time. Usually he was weeping, grieving for the terrible act his shared body had committed. Just like that, though, he was gone once more, locked away in his own mind.

"CannisterCannisterCannister," he chanted, smile dropping into a flat expression. Claire let out the hopeful breath she was holding, careful to not let it hitch on her barely restrained tears. Cannister was the name John's alter ego dubbed himself. The name meant nothing to Claire, and she didn't even know where or why it appealed to the other identity. She did know one important thing about it though. Cannister was unpredictable. That was more dangerous than even being an identity comprised of violence and rage.

When Claire was able to fully compose herself, she realized that her father was humming. The noise didn't create a song, but it comprised of a single tone and pitch, a droning sound that he had been known to make a few times before. He could produce the sound for a few hours, or until his throat grew too hoarse for the vocal cords to vibrate properly. Claire had asked her father's psychological advisors about it once and they surmised that it was a calming noise for him. Something to drown out some of the crazy, so to speak.

"Cannister, I would like to speak with John. May I?" she asked politely. Her father stopped humming, placing his hands flat on either side of his head. He tilted his head, letting his scruffy hair move limply with the movement.

"No," he replied in a stern, even tone.

"Please, let me speak with John," she repeated. She held her chin up and level, refusing to give up and leave the asylum without even trying to reach her real father.

"No," he whispered, dropping his lanky arms and slowly retreating backwards, into the deeply shadowed area near the back of the cell.

"Nooooo…"

"Dad?" Claire said, voice rising in desperation. She stepped closer to the cell, a dangerous move on her part. "Daddy, please, talk to me."

"NO!" 'Cannister' roared, lunging forward and shoving an arm through the bars of his cage. Claire realized that the eyes her father wore at that very moment were the ones he wore when he killed her mother. She stumbled back just in time to avoid his grasping hand. Her back met with the cell behind her. This time she didn't move fast enough. Thin but surprisingly strong arms stretched through the bars, one hand fisting in a bunch of her hair and effectively immobilizing her, lest she wanted a bloody bald spot at the back of her head. The free arm touched her neck. Caressing her throat. She shivered, eyes wide and seeking out the once familiar comfort of her father's eyes. All she saw were his legs, as the rest of him was shadowed, and he lay back down on his cot, already forgetting about her presence.

"Let me go," she said, trying to pry the hand from her hair and wondering whether she should start screaming for Barney now. The hand around her neck tightened, a thumb pressing against her esophagus.

"You smell nice, like a good fu," a voice grated in a somewhat high pitch in her ear. She struggled even harder, biting down a frantic whimper from deep in her throat.

"Miggs," a commanding voice said to her left. She was surprised by the sound of it, gravelly from misuse but strangely engaging at the same time.

"Let her go, Miggs or I will not hesitate to call Chilton down here. He might take away your toilet seat for good this time. Tsk, tsk, tsk, we wouldn't want that, not would we?"

Whatever the threat meant to Miggs, he let go quickly and as Claire practically flung herself away from his cell she could hear him scuttling back into a corner in his cell. Her hand went up to message the feeling of cold fingers at her throat and her head whipped around to see her savior. Unlike the other cells down the hall, this one was encased in a thick layer of glass rather than metal bars. It was the last holding cell down the entire length of the hall, but not shadowed in darkness like the others. Claire approached this one, intrigued. Along the walls of the cell were detailed sketches of various buildings, places in Europe, and even a person, whom Claire couldn't recognize, all on large sheet of butcher paper. The man in the cell was facing away from her, propped up against the headboard of his bed with a gourmet magazine supported on his stomach.

"Thank you," she said, clearing her throat. The man didn't reply and Claire was about to turn and leave, calling it a failure this day.

"What is your name?" the man asked, setting his cooking magazine aside and swinging his slipper wearing feet to the floor. As he stood, he simultaneously turned to face her, the whisper of a smile on his cylindrical structured face. His eyes were kind, but something in them sent a strange trill through her. He was familiar somehow.

"Claire. Claire Bowman," she said, finally dropping her hand from her neck. She was captivated by the silent command this man seemed to emit. He wasn't very tall and was a bit round about the middle, with a receding hairline of grey, slicked back hair. As he approached the glass, he folded his hands behind his back, eyes staring directly into hers.

"Of the Bowman wife slaying?" he asked, eyebrows quirking in interest.

"Yes," Claire answered quietly.

"I've been following your story in the news and express my grief for you and yours. Excuse my manners. I am-"

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Claire said, almost breathless. Now she remembered why he seemed so familiar. His pictures had been plastered on every front-page of every paper in America when he was caught in suspicion of at least nine gruesome deaths.

"I see you've followed my story as well," he said, his odd smile widening.

"It was kind of hard not to, being that you were the face to know a few years back," she said, momentarily wondering how strong the glass was that separated them. He was a known cannibal, after all…

"Why are you here, Miss Claire Bowman, every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday? Your father shows no sign of coming back, apart from his minute relapses."

"How do you-"

"You use Dial soap, a very distinct, bitter smell of cleanliness, Miss Bowman. It's no wonder I smell it on those days, without fail. As for your father… I am a psychologist, a very good one with many talents. Having watched your father live as 'Cannister the Killer' for the better part of three months does not bode well for mental recovery," he stated plainly, his voice lilting pleasantly with every word. Claire flushed, feeling the red tint her pale pace.

"Of course, there is almost always hope," he continued, "but are you willing to be there every step of the way, for many years to come?"

"Yes, of course. He's my father," she said. Hannibal studied her face a moment, as if looking for the lie in it.

"He has killed your mother, do you see no retribution in leaving him here and continuing about your life?"

"Am I going on with my life. Cannister killed her, not my father."

Hannibal smirked.

"Fair enough," he said.

Claire wanted to divert his attention from her and her situation so her eyes darted around his cell, looking for another topic to bring up. Dr. Lecter was an interesting person and she did want to talk to him for a little bit, but not on so touchy a subject.

"You draw very well, Mr. Lecter," she commented, nodding her head towards one of the drawings. He didn't even look to the one she motioned to.

"When you have as much time as me, you learn to develop the gifts you were born with. Do you have any talent, young Bowman?"

"I…" she thought for a moment, then smiled, embarrassed.

"I'm good at Badminton."

Hannibal gave a small toothed grin at her jest.

"It seems to me that you're also good at caring for those less fortunate than you. While your father is locked away in a dank cell beneath the earth, you take the time to visit him three times a week. I do not get the feeling that you are putting on airs, as it were. You truly care for him."

"I do," Claire said. Somehow he managed to steer the conversation back to her father once more and she was uneasy. "I'm willing to keep coming down here whether or not he does get any better."

Hannibal's grin faded into an amused smile, not unlike the one he first wore when she first saw his face.

"There is a chance he will come back to you…"

"Claire," Barney's voice called down to her and she started.

"Yes, I'm coming," she said back. Her visit had come to an end. Da Chilton and his timed visits.

"You will come back, you say?" Hannibal asked. Claire nodded.

"Good girl."


End file.
